


Fire Away

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 13:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had known nothing but him, letting go was like falling, the ground had come and she had to get up and go to the hospital, there was no stretcher to carry her pain, to carry her grief; she only wishes he hadn't fired her this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Away

12 years.

She watches it wash away in twelve weeks, twelve weeks of coming undone, unraveled like long spindrels of thread; wasted silk on a project scrapped from the beginning. It falls apart in her hands, the fights between them colder, crueler, meaner. She finds herself lost for the very first time in her life, with the looming end of her employment a cloud of pure rejection, regret, resentment. She’d never imagined a life without him as the green light, the one thing she strives for in the morning, his happiness the only reason she keeps breathing when life wants to do nothing more than kick the shit out of her on the ground.

He was the helping hand up. He was the shoving hand down.

It’s only practical to clean her desk out in the middle of the night, when no one is watching. She takes twelves hours to wash away twelve years of love settled into that space, belongings in a box the night man left for her by the door. Each of her belongings are pulled from the wooden desk, revealing scratches she’s left over the years. The embedded chip of a cup from an angry man, the long thin scratch from her mobile phone. Rut patterns from her palms near the keyboard, the faded shapes at the corner where the sun reaches the desk the most. The false wall in the top drawer where she’d keep his favorite teas. And a few biscuits when he felt bad. Her fingers lingered over the worn handles of the drawers, over her home for the last time, twisting over the edge of the screw on the one she’d nearly yanked off in her hurry to find something to save his life. From underneath the inside she untaped her photos. Her family. Her sisters. The one Christmas card he sent her the first year after his almost-marriage.

And then the box was full and the sun was coming up.

There’s this great cross pull in her, a desire to wish him a goodbye, yet at the same time to avoid him. The morning worker unlocks the bathroom for her, and even though she still wears yesterday’s work clothes, with the right amount of water and make up, she fixes her face fresh. Around her the office comes to life like the light comes across the Thames, with glittering personalities and deep waves of night owls. If she’s luck and times it right, she will pass him at the doors. She’s half wishing she will, she’s half wishing she wont.

So with box in hand she makes the trek to the doors and lift for the last time. Her desk is empty, drawn clean and clear like no one ever was there. She debated leaving him a note, but doesn’t, the only thing on it is a phone, a little old blackberry. It wasn’t hers to keep. It’s empty except for his name, under emergencies. No photos, no names, no emails, notes, numbers, texts. Like she was never there. It wasn’t hers to keep anyway.

And then he does appear, stepping off the lift as it lets out the people to work. There are a few eyes, a few stares, but not many. He looks thin, but impeccable, with long drawn sadden lines across his features. And she looks young and sad, trying desperately to hold together what she could of herself, to not beg for her job back-be professional in the face of professional itself. But he’s smart. He knows how badly this hurts her. She only wishes it hurts him too. 

They stay staring at each other for a long while, until her lift comes and she climbs in. No words are exchanged, not until the last second when she can gather up just enough voice to thank him. And that’s what she does, because there is nothing left for them to say to each other. When the doors slide shut they will be strangers. So she says what she must.

"Thank you, sir."


End file.
